


Bruises and Scars

by Resacon1990



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, DCEU, DCU, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Short One Shot, Soft Boys, Writing Exercise, bruises and scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 07:23:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20888315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resacon1990/pseuds/Resacon1990
Summary: “Not all of us are metahuman,” Bruce snaps, eyes blazing to hide the sudden vulnerability behind them.





	Bruises and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short piece for a bit of writing exercise! I've been getting my piece ready for the DCU Big Bang 2019 and really needed a bit of self-indulgence to get those writing muscles going!
> 
> Based on this [beautiful piece of art](https://mochachinno275.tumblr.com/post/170538044680/bruises-and-scars).
> 
> It also takes place in Bruce's Batcave Trophy Room, [here](https://cdn.traileraddict.com/content/screencap/121575.jpg) if you would like to visualise it!
> 
> Enjoy xx
> 
> This fic has now been translated to Russian by the wonderful [Kio21557](https://kio21557.tumblr.com/)! Find it [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8728315).

Clark’s never really been in the Batcave before.

Once, he thinks, he briefly came in with the rest of the team before the League Manor was restored to a liveable condition but that was only to collect Bruce to _show_ them said Manor, and Clark had hovered in the doorway of the weapon room the whole time staring at the desecrated suit standing in a pristine glass cabinet and he’d avoided Bruce’s stare when the man had ushered them back up to the garage.

The rest of the team have been a few times, although that was back when Clark was six feet under and Steppenwolf was breathing down all their necks like a damn plague. Overall, they don’t go to the Batcave and Bruce doesn’t invite them either. The Manor is the neutral ground they meet on and it works. Bruce having his own separate space to the team doesn’t bother any of them and it doesn’t affect their newly found team cohesion, so no one bothers to defy Bruce’s unspoken rule of not entering the Batcave _ever_.

So, when Clark turns up on the Lake-House’s doorstep after a rather intense altercation with Lex Luthor, demanding to know where the _hell_ Bruce was throughout the whole ordeal, he’s not expecting Alfred to regard him for a long silent minute before ushering him into the house.

It’d been one particularly long and _exhausting_ fight in the middle of Metropolis involvingthe entire team, _minus_ an unreachable Batman, and Clark really wants to drag himself back to the League Manor like the other’s have already done. But, he dutifully follows Alfred into the Lake-House when the man tells him to do so.

“You can wait for Master Bruce down here,” Alfred informs him as they walk down the corridor before Alfred opens a wall panel to show the stairs leading down to the Batcave.

Clark stares down the dimly lit staircase and wonders if he should back out now. The thought of encroaching on Bruce’s privacy is actually a little intimidating, even if it’s Alfred who’s suggesting it. Maybe he could just send Bruce a strongly worded email later instead about the importance of communicating with your team, but when he glances down, he catches sight of his Superman suit-clad arms and thinks that he didn’t earn this suit by running away.

“Are you sure, Alfred?” Clark does ask though, glancing over to see Alfred looking back passively. “We’re not exactly meant to go into the Batcave.”

Alfred stares at him blankly before he sighs. “Master Bruce didn’t attend today's altercation for a reason,” he says a bit cryptically. “Unfortunately, it is not my place to say why.” Alfred smiles, just slightly enough that it's only the corner of his mouth that curls up. “Perhaps he may appreciate someone new to share it with though?”

Clark isn’t stupid. He knows that if he walks down those stairs that Bruce will not be expecting him. Whatever his reaction, Bruce will be _entirely_ justified and Clark will have to face the repercussions of his actions.

Despite that though, the craving to know more about Bruce is too much. Ever since Clark first heard about him, Bruce has always been an enigma that Clark has been wanting to understand. He blames most of it on his reporter side, the need to uncover every little mystery part of his job, but he hasn’t always been a reporter and he’s not repressed enough to deny that he wants to know more about Bruce because he’s, well… _Bruce_.

Alfred raises one eyebrow at him as Clark lingers still, and finally he caves and starts to descend the stairs. He jumps a little when the wall shuts behind him, and he glances back to see just solid black. After another hesitant moment, he turns back to trekking down the dimly lit stairwell until he reaches the bottom and steps out into a brightly lit room. It’s Bruce’s trophy room, Clark knows that much. Diana had told him about it, and he hovers awkwardly in the middle of the rooms he looks at the array of armour and weapons lining the walls.

It would be a historian’s greatest dream, and Clark starts towards the other end of the room where he can see the corridor that leads to the sprawling main floor of the Batcave. He’s never come through this way, only having come down the large elevator straight from the Lake-House’s garage, but he freezes in place when he hears the sound of footsteps.

“Alfred,” he hears Bruce call from past the doorway, strong and sure, “I need you to contact the team-”

He falters as he turns into the doorway, and Clark stands awkward and still in the middle of the room as Bruce trails to a halt and stares at him with wide eyes.

He’s shirtless where he stands, and Clark would never really have noticed if it weren’t for the shock of seeing the phenomenal amount of scars that litter Bruce’s skin. It makes his mouth drop open as he looks at the marred flesh, his eyes trailing up to Bruce’s face when he sees Bruce’s arms come up to try and cover his chest as much as possible with equally scarred arms.

“Clark,” Bruce says, clearing his throat as his mouth hitches on the end of Clark’s name. He glances away and takes a shuffled step backwards as he fails to cover himself up. “I didn’t realise you were here. Give me a minute and-”

“What happened?”

The question is out before Clark can stop himself, the words feeling heavy on his tongue. Bruce glances up at him, shocked and guarded all at once, and his nose flares as he falls back on the defensive anger he’s so damn good at.

“Not all of us are metahuman,” Bruce snaps, eyes blazing to hide the sudden vulnerability behind them. Clark’s chest aches, and he starts to take small steps forward. “Some of us are just regular humans. Sometimes we’re…” he pauses for a moment before he drops his gaze, “sometimes we’re fragile.”

Those words hit something in Clark he didn’t know existed, causing this awful wave of sadness to crash down over him. Bruce’s is right, in all his anger and fury, he’s _right_. Sometimes he is fragile, and Clark sees the man in the Batsuit, the imposing figure, the undefeated vigilante, and somehow… some bloody _how_, he just forgets.

He’s within reach of Bruce now, and he keeps his gaze lowered as he reaches out slowly to wrap his hand around one of Bruce’s wrists. He’s careful, gentle as he slides his fingertips across Bruce’s skin, his eyes following the three thick long scars that circle Bruce’s wrist and his fingers steady as they slowly trace them, and he can _feel_ Bruce trembling at the soft touch.

“May I see?” he asks, knowing he’s wanting more than to just see the scars, that he wants to know the story behind each of them. His gaze flitters up to Bruce’s, pausing when he sees the panic sitting behind Bruce’s eyes, and he quickly let's go and takes a step back.

He doesn’t apologise for already overstepping, knowing Bruce won’t register it, and instead he turns to sit on the bizarre coffee table jutting out of the wall. He needs to put space between them, let Bruce breathe and gather himself. Clark has walked into his home, his safe space, and seen a part of Bruce that he’s not sure he’s allowed to see just yet.

Clark keeps his eyes focused on the samurai armour across from him as he hears Bruce’s hurried breathing in the doorway. He can’t leave, not now when he doesn’t know what will happen when he does, but he wants to at least give Bruce the illusion of some privacy to take a moment to himself. He starts to count the dots in the squares on the samurai’s armour, counting and counting as his fists open and close on his knees and he listens to Bruce’s shaky breath slowly become more steady.

He’s counting the dots for a second time when Bruce finally lets out his last shuddering breath, and Clark forces himself to keep his eyes straight ahead as Bruce clears his throat. He wants to look over, wants to apologise, wants to bolt to the stairs and pretend like this never happened, but it’s _happening_ and Clark stares at the curve of the Samurai helmet as Bruce comes to a halt beside his shoulder.

“Did Alfred send you down?” Bruce asks, his voice quiet. Clark tenses his jaw for a moment before he gives a jerky nod.

“He probably didn’t know that-” Clark starts to try to make an excuse for Alfred, but Bruce lets out a small huff.

“Alfred always knows,” he interrupts, and Clark is surprised enough that he finally looks up at Bruce. He’s still shirtless, still with his arms crossed so tightly over his chest it _must_ hurt, but his eyes are back to being shielded and there’s not a bit of panic in them.

“If I’d known,” Clark starts, hesitant as he meets Bruce’s shuttered eyes, “I wouldn’t have come down here. I was only wanting to know…” He pauses. It’s not a lie, he hadn’t expected Bruce to be so vulnerable but he _knew_ as he was descending those stairs that he would be surprising Bruce. _This_ is the repercussion of that.

“Why I didn’t respond to the League call?” Bruce fills in for him, and Clark nods as he drops his gaze. It falls on the scars on Bruce’s wrist, the one he’d touched before, and his fingertips burn.

“Yes.”

Bruce doesn’t answer the question though, just stays at Clark’s side and lets out an over-exaggerated sigh. “It’s okay to look,” Bruce tells him, and _that_ makes Clark’s attention jump to Bruce’s face. There’s a hesitancy there, but Bruce looks more determined as he slowly drops his arms to his sides.

Clark can’t help but look, his eyes trailing the multiple scars that cross Bruce’s chest and shoulders. Two thick ones across his collarbone, one of them curling back to undoubtedly fall down his back, a thin but long one straight across his belly, one horrendously large one on his lower abdomen that slips beneath his belt, small crosses peppered in between, matching scars that wrap around both of his upper arms, scratches that are barely healed, bruises that litter amongst them in thick mottled purples. Bruce’s body is a battlefield, laced with the scars to prove it, and Clark forces his hands to stay put even though he yearns to trail his fingers across every wound.

“I didn’t know,” Clark says, voice quiet in the still air between them. “I didn’t know this happened.”

Bruce huffs, and Clark looks up to see him watching Clark with sad eyes. “You wouldn’t,” Bruce agrees. “I would never let any of you know.”

“Why?” Clark asks. Bruce looks away, his jaw clenched and Clark can see the muscles working tensely. He reaches up, breaking the barrier again as he presses a hand to Bruce’s stomach, his palm covering the top of the thickest scar that dips beneath Bruce’s belt line and his fingertips sprawled across the long thin one across his belly.

Bruce flinches at the touch, his stomach sucking in for a moment while his hand comes down to grip Clark’s, tight as his fingernails dig into the side of Clark’s hand. He glances down, eyes wild once again, and Clark wonders if Bruce has ever been touched like _this_ before.

“You would throw me off the team,” Bruce tells him in a rush. “I’m the only human. _I’m_ the liability. If you knew about this then… you wouldn’t have me.”

Clark has talked at length with Diana about Bruce’s insecurities. They’re not common knowledge amongst the others but they all _know_ that Bruce is the one to look out for the most. They’re all metahuman, even Victor is more machine than human now, and Bruce is… is _not_. But that means nothing because they’re a _team_. They will always look out for each other, and no one would ever turn Bruce away.

No one.

“We will _always_ have you, Bruce,” Clark says firmly, his other hand coming up to grip Bruce’s belt firmly, and he gives Bruce a shake. “You’re the most important member of our team. _You_ brought us together, united us under one cause, _created_ the league.” He smiles, his eyes soft as he holds Bruce’s gaze. “You’re our family, and family _help_ each other. Let us help you so this…” he trails off and drops his case to look at the sharp scar curving down Bruce’s sternum. It looks fresh, a bright raw red. “So this doesn’t happen.”

There’s silence for a long moment, Clark watching and feeling as Bruce breathes beneath his hand, slow and steady. Eventually, Bruce’s hand relaxes on top of Clark’s, settling to being still instead of trembling and tight. Clark relaxes too, his shoulders unwinding and softening and he stops gripping Bruce’s belt, instead letting his fingers hook loosely in the belt hoops.

Eventually, Clark breaks the stillness. He doesn’t want to, wants to just stay in this moment with Bruce where nothing could possibly go wrong, where the only noise is their breathing mingling together, where everything is calm and quiet and nothing could change that. But Clark did come here for a reason after all, and he doesn’t move his hands as he tips his head back to meet Bruce’s eyes.

“You weren’t there today,” he says, and Bruce’s eyes flitter away. “Why?”

Once again, Bruce doesn’t answer straight away. He grips Clark’s hands with his own though and pulls them away, Clark’s hands falling into his lap, and he takes a small step back from Clark as he refuses to meet Clark’s eyes again.

“I couldn’t,” Bruce tells him, voice guarded. He glances Clark’s way, not meeting his eyes before he takes a deep breath and turns around.

Clark knows immediately what he’s supposed to be looking at, and it’s not the still stitched up wound following the curve of Bruce’s mid-back. It sticks out on his left shoulder blade, the words a cruel mess of heavy scar tissue, scratched and torn into Bruce’s skin with no care as if mangling Bruce were an afterthought.

_Haha_, it says, and Clark’s stomach drops and his chest aches_._

“Its the anniversary,” Bruce says, voice small. “Seven years today.”

Clark doesn’t need a name, he knows exactly who Bruce is talking about. It’s the one thing he remembers clearly from the Batcave, the desecrated suit in the glass case. _Hahaha_ it says in disgusting yellow spray paint, _Jokes on you Batman_. It makes Clark’s skin crawl as he thinks that some of those words are permanently ingrained on Bruce’s skin now, a constant reminder that Bruce will never be able to get away from.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce,” Clark murmurs, his eyes locked on the scar and unable to look away. Bruce rolls his shoulders, the scars rippling with the movement, and he keeps his back to Clark as he speaks.

“Its nothing for you to apologise for,” he nearly scolds Clark, his voice tight. “These things happen-”

He doesn’t get to finish as Clark reaches out and grips Bruce’s wrist, tugging him around until he faces Clark with a surprised look on his face, and Clark reaches out to wrap his arms around Bruce’s waist and pulls him close. He drops his head against Bruce’s chest, cheek pressed to the tips of the two thick scars, as he slides one hand up to cup Bruce’s shoulder blade, the one without the _Haha_ scar.

Bruce’s hand falls on Clark’s arm that’s around his waist, his other hanging loosely in the air as Clark can _feel_ the confusion. It doesn’t matter to him as he holds Bruce as close as he can, breathing across the scarred expansive of skin on Bruce’s chest, and he refuses to let go when Bruce pushes at his arm.

“I’m sorry these things have happened to you, Bruce,” Clark repeats, clearer this time. The words have obviously surprised Bruce as his hand goes limp on Clark’s arm. He turns his head, propping his chin on Bruce’s sternum to look up at him. “But you’re not alone anymore.”

That seems to hit something in Bruce as he lets out a small exhale of surprise, wide eyes meeting Clark’s. Clark doesn’t know if it was the right thing to say, but he doesn’t care as he turns his head against to press his cheek to Bruce’s chest.

He doesn’t move when Bruce’s hand moves up onto his head, his fingers sliding through Clark’s black locks carefully as the hand on Clark’s arm relaxes and moves to settle on Clark’s shoulders. Bruce’s head drops, his mouth pressing against Clark’s curls, and Clark closes his eyes as he feels Bruce’s unsteady breaths against his hair.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmurs, and Clark breathes with him.

…

**Author's Note:**

> Once again based on this [stunning art](https://mochachinno275.tumblr.com/post/170538044680/bruises-and-scars) by [Mochachinno275](https://mochachinno275.tumblr.com)!
> 
> It all takes place in the [Batcave Trophy Room](https://cdn.traileraddict.com/content/screencap/121575.jpg)!
> 
> And of course, referenced is [Jason Todd's desecrated suit](https://media.comicbook.com/2018/04/batman-v-superman-robin-costume-1099804-1280x0.jpeg).
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! It really was just a bit of whump self-indulgence!
> 
> xx


End file.
